The Dreamer ✓

Letter 27

a/n: super cute cover by @StrangerSight

NO.27; A LETTER ABOUT YOUR THOUGHTS AT THIS MOMENT

JUNE 4th, 2014

Dear Somebody,

It's one in the morning. I can't sleep. And I keep -

I keep thinking -

I keeping thinking that I'm going to die on this planet. On this little clump of rock at the edge of the galaxy, hurtling through the universe. It's a stupid thought because where else am I going to die? But it's also terrifying in this definitive sort of way because my grave is here. It's sitting somewhere on this planet, it's already been written and everything I've done, everything I will do is just a path to my end.

I keep thinking -

I'm never going to see the universe. The different galaxies. The planets. The black-holes. Everything it has to offer. Not in person anyway. I'm always going to be staring up at the stars for the rest of my life. Always looking, never....never actually there, y'know? It makes me want to scream.

Sometimes, I'll lie on my bed just staring up at the ceiling. Most of the times, I'll wish for the ceiling to be ripped off and suck me into space. I'll be dead within a few minutes but at least I got to see the earth in a way only astronauts and satellites have had the privilege. It would be nice to just float in the darkness with the earth spinning below me and suns, old and new, shining and dying all around me.

I told James this once, back in Year Twelve and something flickered in his eyes, like he understood my trembling need to escape but he saw no escape route.

"But Morgana...dying on earth," he'd said, "what's bad about that? It's home. Everything and everyone you've ever known is here. Why would you want to die on some cold distant planet far away from home?"

I think back to that whenever the urge to be swallowed by a black hole rears its ugly head. Home. Home is Nottingham. Home is Sunday dinners with my family. Home is wherever I am loved. That's a nice thought to go to sleep to isn't it? A nice lullaby like the ones our parents sang to us as children. Home. Home is where James kissed me.

God. James.

I keep thinking about James. About the warmth of his mouth. About the strong grip he had on my hips. About the way he tasted like skittles and all the candy I wasn't allowed to eat when I was a kid. It goes without saying really, James is a good kisser. Like, really, really good. God. He was kissing me like - I don't know - like I was a map to a world he needed to explore. Just thinking about it makes my heart want to burst.

I still haven't talked to him since our kiss. He texted me and even rang but I can't bring myself to answer. Every time I try fear seizes me and I run away. I keep running and I don't know how to stop.

It's now half one in the morning and I don't want to think about James. I don't want to write any more love letters to James Baxter. I can't do it anymore. It's too much. He's too much.

Sorry. My thoughts tend to get a little weird when it's this deep into the night. I start to look in on myself and really, that's when everything goes downhill. I better go to bed before my thoughts stop swirling and manifest claws and sharp teeth to rip me apart.

Goodnight.

Love, Morgana.